michelis: It says “Sickness inside.” The strokes aren’t casual or deft enough to be the work of the natives. Ideograms are hard to write rapidly without long practice. Ramon must have written it there.
agronski: I wish we knew where he went afterwards. Funny we didn’t see it when we came in.
michelis: I don’t think so. It was dark, and we weren’t looking for it.
(Footsteps. Door shutting, not loudly. Footsteps. Hassock creaking.)
agronski: Well, we’d better start thinking about getting up a report. Unless this damn twenty-hour day has me thrown completely off, our time’s just about up. Are you still set on opening up the planet?
michelis: Yes. I’ve seen nothing to convince me that there’s anything on Lithia that’s dangerous to us. Except maybe Cleaver in there, and I’m not prepared to say that the Father would have left him if he were in any serious danger. And I don’t see how Earthmen could harm this society; it’s too stable emotionally, economically, in every other way.
(Danger, danger, said somebody in Cleaver’s dream. It will explode. It’s all a popish plot. Then he was marginally awake again, and conscious of how much his mouth hurt.)
agronski: Why do you suppose those two jokers never called us after we went north?
michelis: I don’t have any answer. I won’t even guess until I talk to Ramon. Or until Paul’s able to sit up and take notice.
agronski: I don’t like it, Mike. It smells bad to me. This town’s right at the heart of the communications system of the planet—that’s why we picked it, for Crisake! And yet— no messages, Cleaver sick, the Father not here. . . . There’s a hell of a lot we don’t know about Lithia, that’s for damn sure.
michelis: There’s a hell of a lot we don’t know about central Brazil—let alone Mars, or the Moon.
agronski: Nothing essential, Mike. What we know about the periphery of Brazil gives us all the clues we need about the interior—even to those fish that eat people, the what are-they, the piranhas. That’s not true on Lithia. We don’t know whether our peripheral clues about Lithia are germane or just incidental. Something enormous could be hidden under the surface without our being able to detect it.
michelis: Agronski, stop sounding like a Sunday supplement. You underestimate your own intelligence. What kind of enormous secret could that be? That the Lithians eat people? That they’re cattle for unknown gods that live in the jungle? That they’re actually mind-wrenching, soul-twisting, heartstopping, blood-freezing, bowel-moving superbeings in disguise? The moment you state any such proposition, you’ll deflate it yourself; it’s only in the abstract that it’s able to scare you. I wouldn’t even take the trouble of examining it, or discussing how we might meet it if it were true.
agronski: All right, all right. I’ll reserve judgment for the time being, anyhow. If everything turns out to be all right here, with the Father and Cleaver I mean, I’ll probably go along with you. I don’t have any reason I could defend for voting against the planet, I admit that.
michelis: Good for you. I’m sure Ramon is for opening it up, so that should make it unanimous. I can’t see why Cleaver would object.
(Cleaver was testifying before a packed court convened in the UN General Assembly chambers in New York, with one finger pointed dramatically, but less in triumph than in sorrow, at Ramon Ruiz-Sanchez, S. J. At the sound of his name the dream collapsed, and he realized that the room had grown a little lighter. Dawn—or the dripping, wool-gray travesty of it which prevailed on Lithia—was on its way. He wondered what he had just said to the court. It had been conclusive, damning, good enough to be used when he awoke; but he could not remember a word of it. All that remained of it was a sensation, almost the taste of the words, but nothing of their substance.)
agronski: It’s getting light. I suppose we’d better knock off. michelis: Did you stake down the ’copter? The winds down here are higher than they are up north, I seem to remember. agronski: Yes. And covered it with the tarp. Nothing left to do now but sling our hammocks—
(A sound)
michelis: Shhh. What’s that?
agronski: Eh?
michelis: Listen.
(Footsteps. Faint ones, but Cleaver knew them. He forced his eyes to open a little, but there was nothing to see but the ceiling. Its even color, and its smooth, ever-changing slope into a dome of nowhereness, drew him almost immediately upward into the mists of trance once more.)
agronski: Somebody’s coming.
(Footsteps.)
agronski: It’s the Father, Mike—look out here and you can see him. He seems to be all right. Dragging his feet a bit, but who wouldn’t after being out helling all night?
michelis: Maybe you’d better meet him at the door. It’d probably be better than our springing out at him after he gets inside. After all he doesn’t expect us. I’ll get to unpacking the hammocks.
agronski: Sure thing, Mike.
(Footsteps, going away from Cleaver. A grating sound of stone on stone: the door wheel being turned.)
agronski: Welcome home, Father! We just got in a little while ago and—My God, what’s wrong? Are you ill too? Is there something that—Mike! Mike!
(Somebody was running. Cleaver willed his neck muscles to lift his head, but they refused to obey. Instead, the back of his head seemed to force itself deeper into the stiff pillow of the hammock. After a momentary and endless agony, he cried out):
cleaver: Mike!
agronski: Mike!
(With a gasp, Cleaver lost the long battle at last. He was asleep.)
IV
As the door of Chtexa’s house closed behind him, RuizSanchez looked about the gently glowing foyer with a feeling of almost unbearable anticipation, although he could hardly have said what it was that he hoped to see. Actually, it looked exactly like his own quarters, which was all he could in justice have expected—all the furniture at “home” was Lithian, except of course for the lab equipment and a few other terrestrial trappings.
“We have cut up several of the metal meteors from our museums, and hammered them as you suggested,” Chtexa was saying behind him, while he struggled out of his raincoat and boots. “They show very definite, very strong magnetism, as you predicted. We now have the whole of our world alerted to pick up these nickel-iron meteorites and send them to our electrical laboratory here, regardless of where they are found. The staff of the observatory is attempting to predict possible falls. Unhappily, meteors are rare here. Our astronomers say that we have never had a ‘shower’ such as you describe as frequent on your native planet.”
“No; I should have thought of that,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, following the Lithian into the front room. This, too, was quite ordinary by Lithian standards, and empty except for the two of them.
“Ah, that is interesting. Why?”
“Because in our system we have a sort of giant grindingwheel—a whole ring of little planets, many thousands of them, distributed around an orbit where we had expected to find only one normal-sized world.”
“Expected? By the harmonic rule?” Chtexa said, sitting down and pointing out another hassock to his guest. “We have often wondered whether that relationship was real.”
“So have we. It broke down in this instance. Collisions between all those small bodies are incessant, and our plague of meteors is the result.”
“It is hard to understand how so unstable an arrangement could have come about,” Chtexa said. “Have you any explanation?”
“Not a good one,” Ruiz-Sanchez said. “Some of us think that there really was a respectable planet in that orbit ages ago, which exploded somehow. A similar accident happened to a satellite in our system, creating a great flat ring of debris around its primary. Others think that at the formation of our solar system the raw materials of what might have been a planet just never succeeded in coalescing. Both ideas have many flaws, but each satisfies certain objections to the other, so perhaps there is some truth in both.”
Chtexa’s eyes filmed with the mil
dly disquieting “inner blink” characteristic of Lithians at their most thoughtful.
“There would seem to be no way to test either answer,” he said at length. “By our logic, the lack of such tests makes the original question meaningless.”
“That rule of logic has many adherents on Earth. My colleague Dr. Cleaver would certainly agree with it.”
Ruiz-Sanchez smiled suddenly. He had labored long and hard to master the Lithian language, and to have recognized and understood so completely abstract a point as the one just made by Chtexa was a bigger victory than any quantitative gains in vocabulary alone could have been.
“But I can see that you are going to have difficulties in collecting these meteorites,” he said. “Have you offered incentives?”
“Oh, certainly. Everyone understands the importance of the program. We are all eager to advance it.”
This was not quite what the priest had meant by his question. He searched his memory for some Lithian equivalent for “reward,” but found nothing but the word he had already used, “incentive.” He realized that he knew no Lithian word for “greed,” either. Evidently offering Lithians a hundred dollars for every meteorite they found would simply baffle them. He had to abandon that tack.
“Since the potential meteor fall is so small,” he said instead, “you’re not likely to get anything like the supply of metal that you need for a real study—no matter how thoroughly you cooperate on the search. A high percentage of the finds will be stony rather than metallic, too. What you need is another, supplementary iron-finding program.”
“We know that,” Chtexa said ruefully. “But we have been able to think of none.”
“If only you had some way of concentrating the traces of the metal you actually have on the planet now. . . . Our smelting methods would be useless to you, since you have no ore beds. Hmm. . . . Chtexa, what about the iron-fixing bacteria?”
“Are there such?” Chtexa said, cocking his head dubiously.
“I don’t know. Ask your bacteriologists. If you have any bacteria here that belong to the genus we call Leptothrix, one of them should be an iron-fixing species. In all the millions of years that this planet has had life on it, that mutation must have occurred, and probably very early.”
“But why have we never seen it before? We have done perhaps more research in bacteriology than we have in any other field.”
“Because,” Ruiz-Sanchez said earnestly, “you don’t know what to look for, and because such a species would be as rare on Lithia as iron itself. On Earth, because we have iron in abundance, our Leptothrix ochracea has found plenty of opportunity to grow. We find their fossil sheaths by uncountable billions in our great ore beds. It used to be thought, as a matter of fact, that the bacteria produced the ore beds, but I’ve always doubted that. They get their energy by oxidizing ferrous iron into ferric—but that’s a change that can happen spontaneously if the oxidation-reduction potential and the pH of the solution are right, and both of those conditions can be affected by ordinary decay bacteria. On our planet the bacteria grew in the ore beds because the iron was there, not the other way around— but on Lithia the process will have to be worked in reverse.”
“We will start a soil-sampling program at once,” Chtexa said, his wattles flaring a subdued orchid. “Our antibiotics research centers screen soil samples by the thousands each month, in search of new microflora of therapeutic importance. If these iron-fixing bacteria exist, we are certain to find them eventually.”
“They must exist. Do you have a bacterium that is a sulphurconcentrating obligate anaerobe?”
“Yes—yes, certainly!”
“There you are,” the Jesuit said, leaning back contentedly and clasping his hands across one knee. “You have plenty of sulphur, and so you have the bacterium. Please let me know when you find the iron-fixing species. I’d like to make a subculture and take it home with me when I leave. There are two Earth scientists whose noses I’d like to rub in it.”
The Lithian stiffened and thrust his head forward a little, as if puzzled.
“Pardon me,” Ruiz-Sanchez said hastily. “I was translating literally an aggressive idiom of my own tongue. It was not meant to describe an actual plan of action.”
“I think I understand,” Chtexa said. Ruiz-Sanchez wondered if he did. In the rich storehouse of the Lithian language he had yet to discover any metaphors, either living or dead. Neither did the Lithians have any poetry or other creative arts. “You are of course welcome to any of the results of this program, which you would honor us by accepting. One problem in the social sciences which has long puzzled us is just how one may adequately honor the innovator. When we consider how new ideas change our lives, we despair of giving in kind, and it is helpful when the innovator himself has wishes which society can gratify.”
Ruiz-Sanchez was at first not quite sure that he had understood the formulation. After he had gone over it once more in his mind, he was not sure that he could bring himself to like it, although it was admirable enough. From an Earthman it would have sounded intolerably pompous, but it was evident that Chtexa meant it.
It was probably just as well that the commission’s report on Lithia was about to fall due. Ruiz-Sanchez had begun to think that he could absorb only a little more of this kind of calm sanity. And all of it—a disquieting thought from somewhere near his heart reminded him—all of it derived from reason, none from precept, none from faith. The Lithians did not know God. They did things rightly, and thought righteously, because it was reasonable and efficient and natural to do and to think that way. They seemed to need nothing else.
Did they never have night thoughts? Was it possible that there could exist in the universe a reasoning being of a high order, which was never for an instant paralyzed by the sudden question, the terror of seeing through to the meaninglessness of action, the blindness of knowledge, the barrenness of having been born at all? “Only upon this firm foundation of unyielding despair,” a famous atheist once had written, “may the soul’s habitation henceforth be safely built.”
Or could it be that the Lithians thought and acted as they did because, not being born of man, and never in effect having left the Garden in which they lived, they did not share the terrible burden of original sin? The fact that Lithia had never once had a glacial epoch, that its climate had been left unchanged for seven hundred million years, was a geological fact that an alert theologian could scarcely afford to ignore. Could it be that, free from the burden, they were also free from the curse of Adam?
And if they were—could men bear to live among them?
“I have some questions to ask you, Chtexa,” the priest said after a moment. “You owe me no debt whatsoever—it is our custom to regard all knowledge as community property—but we four Earthmen have a hard decision to make shortly. You know what it is. And I don’t believe that we know enough yet about your planet to make that decision properly.”
“Then of course you must ask questions,” Chtexa said immediately. “I will answer, wherever I can.”
“Well then—do your people die? I see you have the word, but perhaps it isn’t the same in meaning as our word.”
“It means to stop changing and to go back to existing,” Chtexa said. “A machine exists, but only a living thing, like a tree, progresses along a line of changing equilibriums. When that progress stops, the entity is dead.”
“And that happens to you?”
“It always happens. Even the great trees, like the Message Tree, die sooner or later. Is that not true on Earth?”
“Yes,” Ruiz-Sanchez said, “yes, it is. For reasons which it would take me a long time to explain, it occurred to me that you might have escaped this evil.”
“It is not evil as we look at it,” Chtexa said. “Lithia lives because of death. The death of plants supplies our oil and gas. The death of some creatures is always necessary to feed the lives of others. Bacteria must die, and viruses be prevented from living, if illness is to be cured. We ourselves must
die simply to make room for others, at least until we can slow the rate at which our people arrive in the world—a thing impossible to us at present.”
“But desirable, in your eyes?”
“Surely desirable,” Chtexa said. “Our world is rich, but not inexhaustible. And other planets, you have taught us, have peoples of their own. Thus we cannot hope to spread to other planets when we have overpopulated this one.”
“No real thing is ever exhaustible,” Ruiz-Sanchez said abruptly, frowning at the iridescent floor. “That we have found to be true over many thousands of years of our history.”
“But exhaustible in what way?” Chtexa said. “I grant you that any small object, any stone, any drop of water, any bit of soil can be explored without end. The amount of information which can be gotten from it is quite literally infinite. But a given soil can be exhausted of nitrates. It is difficult, but with bad cultivation it can be done. Or take iron, about which we have been talking. To allow our economy to develop a demand for iron which exceeds the total known supply of Lithia—and exceeds it beyond any possibility of supplementation by meteorites or by import—would be folly. This is not a question of information. It is a question of whether or not the information can be used. If it cannot, then limitless information is of no help.”
“You could certainly get along without more iron if you had to,” Ruiz-Sanchez admitted. “Your wooden machinery is precise enough to satisfy any engineer. Most of them, I think, don’t remember that we used to have something similar: I’ve a sample in my own home. It’s a kind of timer called a cuckoo clock, nearly two of our centuries old, made entirely of wood except for the weights, and still nearly a hundred per cent accurate. For that matter, long after we began to build seagoing vessels of metal, we continued to use lignum vitae for ships’ bearings.”
“Wood is an excellent material for most uses,” Chtexa agreed. “Its only deficiency, compared to ceramic materials or perhaps metal, is that it is variable. One must know it quite well to be able to assess its qualities from one tree to the next. And of course complicated parts can always be grown inside suitable ceramic molds; the growth pressure inside the mold rises so high that the resulting part is very dense. Larger parts can be ground direct from the plank with soft sandstone and polished with slate. It is a gratifying material to work, we find.”
American Science Fiction Five Classic Novels 1956-58 Page 44